


Haven; Under The Wings

by nonbinary



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Magical Realism, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:20:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23023120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonbinary/pseuds/nonbinary
Summary: Stuck on the streets under the rain, Mycroft Holmes runs for cover and takes a chance.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 10
Kudos: 101





	Haven; Under The Wings

He curses the thunder, which crashes without mercy as the downpour somehow worsens. 

He’s stuck in an area he barely knows, running along blindly at inhumanly late hours. It’s no wonder every single place he might’ve gone for help is closed. No sane person would be open in this weather, anyway.

He curses twice more at nothing in particular, then once again, just because. Then, like a light in the darkness, he sees it.

From afar, the interior of the store looks like actual paradise: A cozy nook with low, warm lighting, inviting him in. Mycroft heeds the call, running directly towards the wooden door, his torn umbrella flapping above him like wings.

He crashes through the door like Bambi, all legs, only just barely stopping himself from slamming it closed.

Inside, the sounds of city and nature are muted, creating a pleasing effect of insulation. The rain’s constant hum and pitter-patter don’t bother Mycroft so much now that he’s away from it, not being aggressively pelted by the cold, needle-sharp drops.

The relief is short-lived, however; he takes a step and grimaces when his shoes squelch like a frog that’s just been stepped on, letting rainwater onto the small carpet.  _ “Welcome~!”  _ it proclaims. It’s too chipper for Mycroft’s liking. He sighs. His jacket and his trouser legs are halfway soaked, but with a good dry clean they might be salvageable yet. His favorite Oxfords, however, are most definitely ruined now. 

“Don’t mind the mess.” 

The voice takes Mycroft out of his contemplation, making him jump ( _ squelch... _ ) a bit in surprise. When he looks up there’s a ( _ very handsome _ ) silver haired man in front of him, wearing an apron and a smile. 

The man also has a mop in hand and in the other a towel, which he’s extending towards Mycroft in a silent offering.

Now that Mycroft looks behind him, he can see he’s left a trail of water from the door to the now thoroughly soaked carpet. Small as it may be, it’s still a mess, and a gentleman doth leave no messes, no sir! So Mycroft turns back towards the man, head held up high, then takes the mop from him, attempting to care of the water as best he can.

He doesn’t see the man blink, looking bemused, but does feel a hand on his shoulder making him pause.

The man is clearly trying to keep a laugh at bay as he takes the mop off Mycroft’s hands, replacing it with the towel. It’s Mycroft’s turn to blink, down at the towel before he looks up at the man again blankly.

“I apologize, but I am not going to clean the floor with this. The mop should suffice, I think.”

The man barks out a laugh, at which Mycroft stares bewildered. Then he breaks into giggles, making Mycroft stare even harder.  _ Surely I must be going mad. Yes. This is a fever dream. I’m currently laid up in bed after a night in, sick out of my mind.  _ When the man finally straightens up he’s smiling, wiping away a tear.

“Sorry. The towel was for you, mate. You’re still drenched and dripping all over my floor, hence this,” He raises the hand holding the mop, giving it a shake, “for  _ me _ . I’m not mad enough yet to make strangers clean my business, turns out.” 

“Ah,” says Mycroft, definitely not embarrassed at all. “Clearly.”

Trying to come up with another response proves fruitless, so he just grabs the towel and does his best to dry his hair and then his trouser legs, which were the main victims of the rain’s assault. _ I should probably thank him for the towel _ , Mycroft thinks.  _ And ask for a phone. At this rate I will get sick if I don’t properly dry soon.  _

He opens his mouth to inquire but the man beats him to it.

“You can go to the back to warm up before you leave, if you like. I’d just lit the fireplace before you came in. Was about to close up, but I can stay open ‘till you dry up a bit.” The man gives him a lopsided grin, starting to mop around Mycroft where water has continued pooling. 

“Oh, yes,” Mycroft breathes out. “That would be wonderful, thank you.” He’s more affected by the man’s smile than anyone should be. His heart even gave an extra skip and everything! It’s probably anxiety over the weather and the overall incredible misery of his situation, but still, mustn’t one acknowledge one’s heart and its hops if one intends to live beyond middle age? Mycroft nods in self-affirmation. His feet move in the direction the man pointed towards, an open door on the other side of the small wooden counter, then he stops, realizing he doesn’t even know the man’s name. “Er-”

The man looks up from his task, smiling again; he seems to do it without thinking.

“Yeah?”

“My name is Mycroft. Holmes.” He stares, waiting. 

The man seems to catch on right away because he huffs and responds. “Sorry, must be a bit strange to go warm up in some stranger’s backroom, not even knowing their name, yeah? I’m Greg. Lestrade. And this is my lounge gallery.” He waves, hands signaling at the space around him.

Now that Mycroft actually looks around he can see it’s not only a cozy spot; there’s also paintings all over as well as sculptures carefully arranged around in exhibition on a series of wooden podiums. There’s a small stage in the back wall, instruments laid alongside it with a chair sitting in their midst. A bunch of posters hang on one of the walls promoting all sorts of different things: A poetry night, a magic act, a musical performance. It’s all mismatched, but for some reason, it’s still charming. Mycroft can see the care put into it -- it says a lot about its owner. As nice looking as it is, though, Mycroft’s still soaked and increasingly uncomfortable in his shoes, so he looks at Greg with a small smile, for some reason feeling flustered.

“Thank you, Greg. I will-” He gestures behind him with the towel and Greg just nods with a smile, so he proceeds to the backroom, shuffling away with a visible frown at every step.

The back is as Greg had described: It’s a small room with stone floors, a sofa to one side at an angle with a small brick fireplace, which is invitingly lit. Mycroft immediately moves, relishing in the feel of the warm licks of heat that radiate from it. He decides that avoiding a future cold is more important than remaining polite and proper, so he carefully takes off both shoes and sets them down in front of the bricks. He only hesitates for a second before taking off his socks as well, relieved to rid himself of the unpleasant wet fabric. His jacket is laid down along with the towel on one of the sofa’s arms, neither wet enough to merit being closer to the fire. His trousers, however, are another story. He can’t really take them off, so instead, he sits cross-legged on the floor in front of the fireplace, head resting in his hands as he closes his eyes, his worries beginning to melt. 

The slight crackling sound of the fire fills his head, boiling away the previous hum of the rain and lapping over him rhythmically. As his temperature rises his body stops shivering, relaxing further and further.

Minutes pass. His thoughts are blissfully blank, which doesn’t happen often.

In the back of his mind, he hears steady steps.

He’s feeling warm, warmer, steeping in front of the fire like a nice cup of tea.  _ Oh, that would be wonderful, just now… _

“Here.” A rumbling voice says.

He feels something being put in his hands; they close around it, feeling the object and the warmth emanating from it. It’s the prophesied cup of tea, come from the heavens by way of his prayers! Mycroft smiles at the magical voice that reads his thoughts, it can surely see him and understand it’s his way of saying “Thank you for your service, angel.” 

The voice chuckles and Mycroft takes a careful sip from the cup, eyes still closed. The cosiness now spreads inside his chest, gushing down, down to his stomach… He hums in contentment, pleased at both the sensation and at having made his guardian’s voice laugh. 

His brain whirrs like a recalibrating wheel, telling him he should probably acknowledge there’s another actual human in the room.

Mycroft opens one eye slowly, then the other. Greg is sitting on the sofa with his own cup of tea in hand, half facing him, half the fireplace in quiet contemplation. In this lighting the man looks like a Baroque painting; flickering lights and shadows dance over his face, playing with his pensive expression. He almost looks holy, Mycroft muses, then blinks, surprised at the thought. 

_ I don’t know what it is about him that has made me trust so quickly... _

_ I am not usually this careless. _

Greg turns his head towards him, catching Mycroft in his staring. He makes a noise, eyebrows raising in a question.

“Er,” Mycroft feels himself blush, flustered. He tells himself it is caused by the warmth of the fireplace. ”I realize I am imposing. Again I must thank you,” he looks into half-empty the cup of tea, hesitating. “I have one last favor to ask, if I may-” 

Before he can continue, Greg’s raised his hand, extending something towards him: A phone.

Mycroft gapes for just a second before attempting to smile, taking the phone. The clock on it marks close to 4 AM; he doesn’t wish to bother the driver at this hour. A cab should do, though he’ll most likely end up soaked again on his way to it, thanks to his useless umbrella. He shudders just thinking about it, eyes closing momentarily.  _ I’ll just have to bear it. It is the Englishman’s way. _

“Phone a cab, Mycroft. I’ll lend you my umbrella.” Greg’s voice interrupts his train of thought yet again, somehow fixing his problem within seconds. 

Mycroft just gazes at him, unsteady.  _ How…? _ He nods. 

While he places the call Greg stands up, stretching, before retreating to the main room. A minute later, Mycroft’s already hung up. He puts on his jacket ( _ warm _ ), then the socks ( _ dry _ ), then his shoes ( _ toasty _ ), taking the time to tie the laces up as neatly as possible. When he’s done he stands up, following Greg’s last path. It seems Greg has anticipated his arrival, because he’s standing near the door and holding a new black umbrella, dully shiny wooden handle already stretched out towards him. Mycroft lifts his arm towards it, hand curving around the wood with care. Greg doesn’t release it immediately -- there’s a second of eye contact, then two; it feels like it’s gone on for an eternity. His eyes are warm brown, deep and wide. Mycroft can almost see the laughter splashing around in them, part of him wishing he could do the same thing. 

A horn beeps, shattering the spell. 

Greg looks out the door’s glass window, a frown tugging at his eyebrows.

“Your cab,” Mycroft’s still looking at his profile when Greg’s face turns back towards him. “It’s here.”

Slightly in a daze, he nods. He can already hear the sharp rain again, threatening to take him back to earlier, erasing the entire memory of this strange hour with this bewitching man.  _ Is this it? _ He turns towards the door, faltering.  _ It can’t be all… _ He sets one hand on the door handle, the other squeezing the new umbrella, calling for courage he doesn’t feel arrive.

“I have one question,” Mycroft says, slowly. He looks back at Greg, his heart pulsing. He takes a breath… 

“How am I able to read your mind?” says Greg, neverending smile reforming.

_ No…!  _ “Yes,” says Mycroft.

Greg hums, looking at him with a twinkle in his eye. His hand has at some point landed on Mycroft’s over the door handle, from where it’s raised up to his face to a small, sweet kiss. He pats it closed softly.

“A magician never tells.” He grins. 

Mycroft can only nod as Greg opens the door for him, hand on his lower back pushing him out like a gentle breeze. His hand is still loosely formed into a fist when he gets in the cab, beginning to feel overcome as soon as the door shuts. 

_ And if I’d like to know, regardless? What then, magician? _

He sinks into the cab’s seat, the umbrella laid across his legs carefully. He manages to mumble out his address and settle back into the ride when the memory of the last moment sneaks up on him ( _ his hand on mine, closing it…) _ . Something twinges in his chest, replaying it over and over, and only then does he realize his hand is still half-closed. Without him willing it, it unclenches, revealing a small, carefully folded paper inside. 

His hands are shaking like a leaf as he opens it. It’s a phone number, with a message scribbled underneath in thick black ink:

_ “If you’d like to know, still, just call or come by.  _

_ Maybe then I’ll tell. _

_ \-- Greg.” _

**Author's Note:**

> I've been trying to work on a longer story but got a bit tired of it. I got home from work today and sat down to vomit this little story. I didn't know where I was going with it (maybe you can tell) and it ended up sounding a little surreal at times, which I liked.
> 
> I hope you liked something about it. If you have criticism, I welcome it. Before I started this fic I was cursing out that advice that goes on about how one shouldn't use too many adverbs, but once I read the reasoning behind it I applied it here and it feels loads better than anything else I've done, so there. There's always room for improvement. It is my goal to fill that room.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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